


A Sexual Sprouting

by onyxheart



Series: Compendium of Magical Depravity [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Crack, Curses, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fetish, Herbology, Improper use of plants, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Other, Plant sex, Plants, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 17:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19178440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyxheart/pseuds/onyxheart
Summary: Sprout is cursed by painful seizures. The most effective antidote: having a Mandrake pleasure her sexually.No drugs were taken during the conception of this short story. Okay, I snorted some Floo powder.





	A Sexual Sprouting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taisho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taisho/gifts).



_Greenhouse Three, Hogwarts Castle._

 

    “Okay, that’s it for today fifth-years! File out, file out…quickly now. Stop dawdling, Potter…Weasley,” Sprout barked at random Gryffindors, keener than usual to empty her classroom because she could now enjoy a well-earned free period before having to teach a bunch of energetic first-years. She was getting too old for this nonsense.

    She could see in her periphery the outline of an all too familiar student and his clumsy, loping gait shuffling towards her. ‘I don’t have time for this,’ she thought, already mourning the loss of precious seconds of solitude. Over the countless years of her professorship at Hogwarts, she had become more and more impatient to student enquiries. Sprout was a terminally positive woman, but the persistence of youth had gradually stripped away and poked at her ability to let everything roll off her, like water off a hippogriff’s back.

    “Longbottom,’ she said with a smile, and an almost imperceptible air of exhaustion. ‘Come here dear. What have you got there?” Neville approached her with an animated shuffle, his eyes twinkling with excitement; Herbology always had this effect on him, and she could not help but smile at her prodigy’s endearingly innocent passion for the field for which she had dedicated her life to studying and teaching. She heaved herself into a very battered chair behind her messy desk, coated always in a thin layer of dirt and soil.

    “Professor, I’m having some problems with my Mimbulus mimbletonia,’ he said sheepishly, the light in his eyes dimming as he heaved his own specimen of the rare Assyrian plant onto her desk with a muted thud, disturbing and scattering soil in his usual ham-fisted way. Pomona Sprout, childless and unmarried, funnelled her plenitude of maternal instincts and love into her talented students. Longbottom was clumsy, lacking in common sense, incessantly curious, and socially awkward, but she loved him as a doting mentor. In spite of his faults, he showed an almost unbelievable dexterity and advanced comprehension in working with magical plants. He reminded her of herself at his age – a lumpy, prematurely big-breasted, ungainly, ungraceful, unpopular student with an unquenchable thirst for more Herbology knowledge, and a complete lack of concern or even awareness that she was any of those things. The big breasts aside, she saw herself looking back at her in his simple, oblivious face. She wondered if Longbottom had any close friends at all. She had the briefest of flashbacks to teaching his parents at Hogwarts, and her mood took a tumble from mild impatience to nostalgic sadness.

    “What seems to be the issue, dear?” She mentally shook off the image of his dead parents, and general pity for the lot that had been lumped on this goofy, awkward kid. “The flesh looks healthy, not discoloured,” she scanned the plant with the keen eyes of a woman, deservedly acclaimed and respected in her field for diagnosing even obscure ailments with the most common and rare plants alike. “Early adolescent… boils and thorns not too sparse, nor too dense,” she continued, oblivious to the transfixed Neville staring at her, bewitched by the ease with which she was analysing his pet plant.

    “Oh, right, Professor,” he mumbled, just realising his mouth had been agape. Sprout had noticed, but she was used to his drooling appreciation for her skills at this point and ignored it with mild amusement. “I’m sure you’re right, but I just can’t help but feel that Mimi isn’t herself.”

    “It… Mimi… will be absolutely fine, dear,” she placated him, hoping that naming his plants in this way was just eccentric interest, rather than a means for replacing human contact, or to fill his lack thereof. “Now run along. If you notice any drastic changes in shape, height, stiffness… erm… boil or thorn shedding, discolouration or flesh wrinkling please do come back to me. For now, I have lots to do, so...” Suddenly it hit her. Shooting pains travelled hot and fast through her body, like lightning bolts hitting the same spot multiple times a second; unfortunately for her, the spot was her vaginal area. The nerve endings seemed to burst and overload, pain receptors working overdrive centred around the most sensitive area of her body. As it always did, this lasted a few seconds, and it took every fibre of her being to just bite her lip and wince, rather than let out a bloodcurdling scream. The pains stopped, leaving just her fingers and toes tingling. Just a minute or two and the bone-splitting pain would come back again; she understood this phenomenon now like the back of her hand, better even.

    “P-Professor, are you okay?” Neville was not sure how to respond to seeing his beloved Professor like this. She gritted her teeth and scrunched up her face, clearly in anguish.

    “Fine, Longbottom. Go…go please,” she managed to squeeze out the words through the tension rising inside her, constricting the muscles in her neck and face.

    “Okay, professor, just one second. Are you sure Mimi’s boils aren’t too raised?” Neville said agitatedly, his niggling anxiety over his plant’s well-being coming to the fore again. He pointed towards his Mimbulus mimbletonia, and let a stubby index finger head towards a particularly large boil on one of the plant’s gnarly offshoots.

    “DON’T!” Sprout screamed, as Neville unthinkingly prodded the boil in question. A split second after his finger penetrated the thin outer membrane of the boil, its defence mechanism was fully demonstrated. With an audible _SQUIT_ a copious splurge of snot-green Stinksap was released from its membranous sac, with a propellant force surely disproportionate to its small stature and lack of musculature. The thick, gelatinous substance hit Sprout square in the face, leaving her mouth and chin covered and dripping with it. Despite having experienced the smell numerous times in her studies, nothing ever prepared her to smell it again, especially when it lands like a botanical cumshot right under her nose with such strength that her head was aggressively thrust backwards.

    “PROFESSOR! I’m so sorry, I’m… I don’t… what shall I… do you have a rag?” Neville’s eyes filled with tears. He had just covered his favourite professor’s face in an exotic sap that stank of putrid, sun-baked manure. Why did he never think? ‘ _Imbecilic, loathsome, waste of magical blood_ ,’ rang in his head, from one of Malfoy’s more piercing tirades a few days ago.

    Sprout did not want to open her mouth to speak, lest some of the foul-tasting sap get into her mouth. She looked Neville sternly in the face, pointed to himself and his plant and thrust her pointed finger demonstratively at the greenhouse door. He quickly grabbed Mimi and shuffled out with a speed she had never seen before. He tripped on a few errant twigs on the unswept floor near the threshold to the outside, and nearly went headfirst with his plant through a pane of glass. He managed to just catch himself to avoid further accident, before traipsing sadly out of sight and back to Gryffindor Tower.

    In the time it had taken Neville to lumber outside, Sprout had performed a hasty Scourging Charm on her face with a wave of her stubby wand, its core of dittany stalk. Being the only wand core made from plant substances, it had sealed her green-fingered vocation when it chose her in Ollivanders decades prior. Finally free of the stench and suffocating plasm, she opened her mouth in a satisfying sigh. The tempest of pain, ‘The Storm’ which she called it to herself, was imminent again soon. Her extremities were still tingling in cognizant anticipation for the next bout.

    This was Sprout’s most serious and long-standing secret. She had only informed Dumbledore upon her promotion to Head of Hufflepuff House. Any disabling or compromising personal issues must be disclosed prior to appointment, where the pastoral care for dozens of students’ well-being is left to the Head of House. Anything that might affect one’s duties should therefore be fully discussed with the Headmaster.

    “Pomona, what is troubling you?” Dumbledore had said decades prior, as she sat in the Headmaster’s office, brimming with trinkets, magical gizmos, and bookcases stuffed full of dusty tomes. Her appointment to the position of Head of Hufflepuff was imminent, and what could easily have been a cursory meeting between Headmaster and appointee became much more. Albus Dumbledore, a body language expert, knew this capable, endearing little witch was gearing herself up to disclose something. Something she obviously felt might jeopardise her position.

    “Albus… I have dedicated my life to this school, but I never expect special dispensation. I expect to be held to the same scrutiny of…”

    “Pomona,” he cut her off. “You cannot ask a biased person to be unbiased. I am unashamedly biased in my affection for you. Do not ask a stubborn old tiger to change his stripes.” He smiled warmly, hoping to dissipate her anxiety.

    “I am cursed, Albus.” He remained silent as he saw her eyes moisten; more information would come forth if he just listened without judgement. When she saw in his eyes an accepting twinkle, it gave her confidence to continue. “After I graduated Hogwarts, I went travelling the world to pursue my passion. I went to innumerable places. I collected samples, studied and categorised hundreds of new magical species of plants.”

    The crux was coming soon, Dumbledore was sure. He listened patiently as she explained her secret with the sorrow of a woman burdened and exhausted beyond her control.

    “Such naivety back then,” she sighed. “I was so engrossed in my studies that I was oblivious to potential dangers around me. I had discovered a new species of cowbane, an unknown Asiatic variety, in Kazakhstan. I was, unknowingly at the time, taking samples on a belligerent old witch’s land. My Kazakh was a bit rusty…”

    “Naturally,” interjected Albus, with a flicker of a smile at Sprout.

    “I only managed to blurt out a few words of apology, which I don’t think I did correctly. She was ranting and raving like a lunatic. She drew her wand, and before I had a chance to block she cursed me. I didn’t know at first what the damage was…”

    “Pomona, whatever it is, we can work with it,” Dumbledore reasoned, hoping that his nervous feeling was not distinguishable.

    “I have seizures, Albus. It is similar to pregnancy in how the contractions reoccur at an increasing rate until an inevitable breaking point…the same happens with this curse. I have an onset of seizures; fives minutes then another one, then another one shortly after, then another… then another, until there is no break between them. It becomes a constant until I… fulfil the terms of the curse.”

    “What is the antidote to these seizures?” Dumbledore said with a curious expression.

    “Orgasm, Albus,” she said straight-faced, as if it had been the most banal activity one could possibly do. “I have to achieve orgasm as soon as possible. And of course, the seizures often come at the most inopportune times. Since living through this on a daily basis, over time it has become harder and harder to do what is necessary to climb that mountain. I am not a twenty-something, libidinous, sensual being anymore. What once was moist and fertile, has wilted to an arid, Saharan landscape.”

    “I appreciate your candour, Pomona,” lying somewhat, Dumbledore believing she could quite easily have left him without the mental picture of her anhydrous, exhausted vagina. “This stays between us. Consider it noted and largely forgotten.”

 

    She had never mentioned it to a soul before or since that meeting. Dumbledore kept his word, and they had continued a generous agreement that she could excuse herself at any moment, and take care of her needs when the curse presented itself. She had left Great Hall feasts to run into broom closets and frig herself, she had left suddenly in the middle of a lesson to run into an empty greenhouse. There is no inconvenient moment in which, during her time as Herbology professor, she has not had to excuse herself to weather The Storm to an aggressive, orgasmic conclusion. On one occasion, she was so beside herself with pain that she hobbled to the nearest girls’ lavatory on the second floor without thinking. Luckily no students were inside, but she had the most vocal and explosive orgasm inside the furthest cubicle. Thinking the coast clear, she made her way out only to be greeted outside the cubicle door with Moaning Myrtle grinning at her lasciviously. “Naughty, naughty, professor,” she had said, Sprout dumbstruck and completely mortified. “I knew you were green-fingered, professor, but I didn’t know you were pink-fingered, too.” She let out an ear-splitting cackle.

 

    With Neville hopefully safely on his way back to the castle, Sprout heaved herself up and went to shut the greenhouse door, kicking up dirt and leaves absent-mindedly as she went. Having a peek out through the grimy glass to make sure no stray students were making their way to her despite having no teaching obligations for the next hour. The autumn sun was sat solitary in a cloudless sky, beating its rays of gentle heat into her greenhouse. As she sat back in her rickety chair, she pulled up her dirt-sodden robes to expose her now throbbing loins to the weak sunlight. The radiating effect seemed to incense her burning need to climax even further, her millions of nerve endlings tingling from the increased temperature. Her vulva, despite being post-menopausal and irritated from frequent diddling, was not unattractive. Despite her outward unkempt appearance – wild, wiry grey hair and dirty, dishevelled attire – she kept her snatch pristine. Ever since the start of the curse, she had used regular depilatory and pH-balancing charms. Over time she had begun to add lubricating charms to that list with increasing regularity.

    She charmed her pulsating front hole to an acceptable level of moisture, and hoisted her robes further up body so that her blood-engorged nub was invisible to her, her face hidden between layers of bunched up musty robes, her monumental bosoms, and a sizeable belly. She fumbled blindly with her fingers to reach the love button, the source of her problem and pleasure. Her clit was so inflamed with desire, it was almost unbearable to finally touch it and relieve herself of the risk of seizure. She rubbed her folds, and slipped in and out of her quivering sheath as if she was petting a rabid animal into submission.

    “Come now, this is it,’ she whispered to herself, catching her breath between each twinge of pleasure. “Come on… get me there, oh Merlin’s beard…”

    She was letting huge waves of arousal wash over her, sucking her into a state of bliss and ecstasy. The climax just would not come, however. Her minge, her wizard’s sleeve if you will, was so used to her stubby fingers that it had acclimatised to the sensation. It was not sated anymore by mere self-manipulation. She was so unbelievably wet now, that her chair was covered in her warm, witch’s brew. She moved forward in her chair to sit up, and a gush of moisture came spurting forth, sliding down her slit, taint, and onto the soil-covered floor. She could create such a voluminous quantity of slit juice when she really got going, that she would not be surprised if the Giant Squid decided to relocate from the Great Lake in Hogwarts grounds to the spacious, broth-filled cavern of her love furnace.

    She heaved herself sluggishly out of the chair one more time. She knew she had to cum hard and soon, and it would not happen by her own will and frenzied frigging. She walked, legs as far apart as she could, to the far end of the greenhouse leaving a trail of pussy nectar dripping on the floor in her wake. She reached an area full of unremarkable looking potted plants which she knew contained Mandrakes of various stages of maturity hidden under the soil. The root of a Mandrake looks like a human and matures, like a human, as a baby through to late adulthood but much faster. The cries of adult Mandrakes are fatal, so she quickly grabbed her fetching pair of fluffy pink earmuffs before uprooting one that she knew to have reached adulthood.

    “Yes, you’ll do nicely, dear,” she said lustfully, though her words decayed into nothingness because of her noise cancelling muffs. The Mandrake she had chosen was pleasant looking for a bulbous root, wriggling and wailing inaudibly as she inspected him. He might have been considered equivalent to an early middle-aged male if he were a human, with the texture of ginger root and an earthy, beetroot aroma. Sprout knew this one to be a nibbler, but would suckle down with little encouragement, like an upset infant upon a mother’s teat.

    With no time to kill, she yanked up her robes where she stood, resting one hand upon the rough, wobbly table which the Mandrakes were all set upon. In the other hand, she held the screaming Mandrake by its neck and shoved it headfirst past wayward flaps of her robes until its protesting mouth clamped onto the fleshy folds of her outer labia. She immediately let out a yelp of intense pleasure.

    “MERLIN! MERLIN! OH, FUCKING MERLIN!”

    She knew her trusty Mandrake love slave would see her desire to an enjoyable conclusion soon. Bestiality, or inter-species love has been studied and comment upon in great detail, but still no books have been written about the potential for magical plants to take part in sexual, or even loving relationships. It is something Sprout had considered writing many times over the years, but did not wish to invite questions about her research methods, for no one in the entire Magical World has fucked more plants than Pomona Sprout. If she could use that to her advantage in writing up her research, maybe finally something good might come of the evil Kazakh witch’s curse.

    After a short period of toothless chomping on her raw, sopping wet pussy lips, the Mandrake settled and was pacified into a gentle rhythmic sucking. Every nibble, every soft suckling of its cold, earthen lips around the slippery hood covering her nubbin created powerful tides of orgasmic bliss. Spasms passed throughout all parts of her cunt, inside and out, like an unstoppable current, forcing all the muscles in her canal to contract and release, contract and release, until with one final deluge of liquid the curse was satisfied, and the greenhouse floor between her legs was now a quagmire of soil and cum.

    She could not hear her own screams, but she was sure they would have been audible even above the banshee wails of the Mandrake. Putting her earthy playmate back into his soil, she removed her earmuffs and stepped back, trying to avoid slipping in her filthy mess. Just as she turned to go back to her chair, hoping to enjoy the rest of her free period seizure-free, she spotted Neville outside, paralysed by shock, his face pressed up against the glass. She had not heard his hesitant knocks as he arrived just after she had put her earmuffs on to select her Mandrake. As soon as he had seen what she was doing with the Mandrake, his knocking turned to stunned silence. Sprout ran to the door suddenly with the energy of a woman 40 years her junior and wrenched open the door, panting.

    “Longbottom, I was just… the Mandrakes they…” she muttered incoherently and out of breath, trying to construct an excuse on the spot that could make any sense.

    “Er, professor, if you’re busy… I can…” Neville had never been more uncomfortable in his life. Suddenly a thought dawned on him, and his mood shifted from extreme disgust to selfish need. “About the Mandrakes… could I book in some extra time to work with them, professor? Alone.”

    “Alone, boy? You know you can’t work with dangerous plants unsupervised.”

    “I want to keep my studies independent and secret, professor, just as I’m sure you do as well…” he wondered if his sudden bold display of blackmail would work out in his favour or his demise. He would never really tell on his favourite professor to anyone, but he was more interested in making her aware he wanted in on the action. She all-of-a-sudden understood what he was getting at.

    “Oh, well… I guess I could allow some independent… research. So long as you don’t… research… with MY favourite Mandrake,” she said, blushing deep scarlet.

    “Don’t worry about that, professor, I think I’ll be more interested in studying a more feminine specimen.”

    From that day onwards, Neville was allocated private greenhouse time a few times a week, whereby he very conscientiously did some very enjoyable fieldwork for Sprout’s future publication on the sexual potential of plants. The future Professor Longbottom co-wrote, in fact, a sizeable chapter for her, entitled ‘Mandrakes and Their Capacity to Perform Fellatio’.

 

 


End file.
